


The Key to Buffy’s….

by bewildered



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-09-30 08:04:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17220098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewildered/pseuds/bewildered
Summary: The monks turn the Key into something they feel certain, after some rather brief magical research, that Buffy will protect with her life: her loofah.Warnings: You see the rating. There is loofah PoV. I think you know where this is going. In other news, I have no shame, and if you keep on reading, you have only yourself to blame. Also, an “ew” from my kindly beta Sigyn suggests I mention there is some Buffy/Other in this fic. Sorry, blame canon.Written for the “Hidden Gems” board Holiday Event, as a gift for the delightful yellowb. I hope this fic is everything you dreamed of when you created that evil, evil prompt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yellowb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowb/gifts).



CHAPTER 1 

In every generation there is a chosen one. She alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness.  _ She is the slayer _ .

Alas, I am not the slayer, nor am I technically a  _ she _ . I am, at best, slayer-adjacent, though I, too, have been chosen, when I was harvested from my mother luffa tree, and chosen again, in the sense of being plucked from a bin at the store, and then chosen yet again, when I was imbued with the power of the Key, granted memory and awareness and intention. I am small, and unassuming, and one could easily not even notice me. And yet I feel I, too, have done my part in saving the world from a terrible fate. My tiny, frivolous contribution? Has averted at least one apocalypse. Maybe two. Really, who’s counting?

I am the slayer’s loofah.

This is my story.

*

I remember the day she chose me like it was yesterday, though from what I have since learned this is likely not a real memory, and I may indeed not have existed at that time, which makes me unutterably sad, thinking of how lonely she must in actuality have been without my scratchy-yet-sensual presence to brighten her bathtimes. But as I remember it, I was sitting there in a plastic display bin at Walmart, keeping company with a few other loofahs. This was incredibly boring, because for whatever reason, none of the other loofahs would talk to me. It is possible -- again, with the value of hindsight -- that this was because they were not sentient and were actually incapable of speech, but at the time I was hurt by what I saw as their cliqueish snobbery. I was the new sponge on the block, and my singular beauty, I was sure, had made them jealous. I had just determined to make a stand against their silent bullying when I saw her.

It was love at first sight.

She was wearing a short white dress with a cheerful red gingham collar and trim, pushing her cart slowly down the cosmetics aisle, a hungry look on her face. Every so often she would pause and pick something up - a bright lipstick, or a bottle of sparkly nail polish, admiring it, but then she’d look back at her cart, frown, and put the item back on the shelf. She looked so sad, all I could think of was cheering her up.

When she reached my section of the aisle, she stopped and pulled out a little sequined change purse. “Let’s see if those tips have magically multiplied now that I let them have some private time,” she muttered wryly, and counted out a stack of ones, adding commentary as she went.

“One, two, three -- there’s the toilet paper -- four, five -- crappy two-in-one shampoo -- six, seven, eight -- mac and cheese -- nine, ten -- milk -- eleven, twelve, thirteen -- Cheerios….” On and on she went, until she’d made it to the end of her stack and had listed everything in her cart; she stared at the few remaining bills with a despairing look on her face. “That leaves five dollars for everything else.” She looked around. “Guess a TV’s not going to happen today,” she grumbled, and prepared to fold her money away.

I was caught up in trying to get her attention, and I must have leaned too far -- or fate took a hand -- because that was the moment when I tumbled from my plastic bin and fell literally at her feet.

She frowned down at me, picking me up in her perfect hand -- perfect except for a slight roughness to the skin, which I was clearly destined to take care of! -- and tucked me back in place.

“Exfoliation,” she sighed. “Another luxury Buffy-in-exile gets to learn to do without.” She was about to turn and leave me behind forever, when a strange look passed over her face. The next thing I knew, I was in her hand again, and she was peering at my price tag -- a bit personal, I suppose, but I already wanted to be with her so badly that I didn’t mind the presumption at all.

“Four eighty-two,” she muttered thoughtfully, glancing off into the distance as she calculated. “All right, I can probably get another two weeks out of that toothbrush. Exfoliation it is.” And she tossed me into her cart.

That evening, I waited in nervous anticipation for my new mistress. Though of course I knew my purpose in life -- or at least the bath-related purpose; I would not know of my interdimensional purpose for some years -- I had never in fact exfoliated. I felt giddy knowing that the mysteries of the flesh were soon to be revealed to me, and when she finally drew her bath and set me to her skin I was as happy as a loofah could be. Surely there could be no greater bliss than polishing a loved one’s epidermis to a creamy sheen! I sighed joyfully as she scrubbed me over her legs and arms, her feet and stomach, and the parts of her back she could reach.

When she had cleansed her skin to her satisfaction, Buffy-in-exile lay in the bath staring at the ceiling for a long time. I floated in the cooling water, content just to be in her presence and replete with the knowledge of a job well done. I was surprised when she took me in her hand again. Was there an elbow I had failed to smooth?

Beneath the water I went, and to my surprise I came in contact with the very softest skin I could imagine, and she sighed blissfully at the contact. I knew then the truth of my calling, my duty. I knew I existed to bring this woman pleasure, and so I thrilled to the feel of her, wet with more than the bathwater, as she rubbed me tentatively up and down. 

“Angel,” she whispered softly. “Oh, Angel….”

A moment later, I found myself floating in the water again, as she buried her face in her hands and wept.

I wept with her -- or would have, if a loofah could cry -- and wondered who this  _ angel _ was, to make her so unhappy. It didn’t seem angelic to me, making the most perfect woman in the universe cry like the world had ended.

Eventually she sniffled her tears away, running some cold water from the tap to splash her face, and drained the tub, setting me off to the side. When she’d wrapped herself in a cheap cotton robe and brushed her teeth, she leaned over and looked at herself in the mirror, grimacing at her red eyes.

“Guess guilt and grief are not the key to Buffy’s…” She broke off with another sniffle. “God, what am I doing? I came here to get away from all that, not to constantly relive it.” She glared at herself in the mirror, like a general. “Besides, Buffy’s dead now, along with Angel. You’re Anne now. Get over yourself.”

And she went to bed.

I didn’t understand what she meant about being Anne, but it didn’t matter. She’d always be Buffy to me.

The next few nights, Buffy made numerous other attempts to pleasure herself with me, but all met with the same dismal results. “George Clooney…” she purred, but then gave up in annoyance after only a few strokes. “Jeff Goldblum,” “Johnny Depp,” and “Brad Pitt” were equally unsuccessful. Someone named “Zander” didn’t even make it to the stroking part before she set me aside, ruefully.

Finally, one night, she just lay there, eyes closed, plying herself with slow, lazy strokes that, from what I could tell, did little to arouse her, but I suppose must have been comforting, because she sighed and stroked her other hand along her body.

And then she whispered his name.

“Spike….”

Her softer parts reacted immediately, rewarding me with her slick arousal. She tasted like heaven. She gave another rub, flicking me through her folds.

“Oh, god,” she moaned as she rubbed me against her again, and again. “That makes it official, Buffy. You are officially screwed up.” But then her free hand curved about her breast, and she let her legs widen, and oh, she was so hot and slick against me. Whoever this Spike was, the mere thought of him touching her was clearly just what she needed to find her release. 

“Yes, Spike,” she moaned. “There. Just like that. God.” She scrubbed me gently against the hard nubbin hiding in her slick folds, and mere moments later was quivering with what had to be an orgasm. (I, of course, had never and would never experience an orgasm, but I had read the cover of Cosmo when we were in the Walmart checkout line, so I am not without knowledge in these matters.)

When her body had relaxed, Buffy started to laugh.

“That is all sorts of fucked up,” she muttered, but then she had me in her hand again, and there was nothing tentative or lazy about the way she applied me now; she was swollen and tender with arousal, and slick as butter under my fibers. She dragged me along herself in long strokes, slow then fast then slow again; she flicked me in short fast strokes like the lapping of a tongue; she ran me in circles about her throbbing clitoris; and all the while she murmured Spike’s name, like it was a magic spell.

When she shattered with release yet again, I was filled with the most delightful euphoria. I had done it! I had fulfilled my calling!

Buffy lay there in the tub for a little while longer, laughing faintly and staring at the ceiling, before rinsing me, draining the tub, and heading off to bed. From the relaxed curve of her back as she went out the bathroom door, it is my belief that she slept well that night.

I had done well.

Over the next few nights, as Buffy brought herself off with my fibers again and again, I grew curious about this  _ Spike _ . It wasn’t the most auspicious of names, and yet the mere mention of him had Buffy dripping with arousal. Perhaps he was a Chippendales dancer? Or a rock star? That would explain the name.

As she grew more comfortable with my use, Buffy’s conversations with imaginary-Spike grew more heated and her self-pleasure developed more variety. There were times when I sat on the edge of the tub benevolently watching over as she pleasured herself with just her fingers, or when she used me on her hard nipples while thrusting her fingers inside herself. Really, it was all one to me. My joy was in seeing her achieve release, and also in exfoliating her skin, which was now soft and luxurious from my ministrations. I was as successful as a loofah could be.

There is a period of time when my life changed barely at all. (Again, I suspect these memories are all created; I cannot say for sure, but I feel that the monks who sent me to the slayer for protection must have cut a few corners in their spell, focusing merely on the big events.) At some point I was moved from one tub to another; Buffy stopped coming to the bath smelling of bacon grease and instead was redolent of dust and freshly-turned earth. One night she ran a bath hot enough to scald and sat there silently weeping until it was ice cold, never taking me in her hand once. This was the last time I heard Angel’s name cross her lips -- and good riddance, I felt. Then there was a period when I barely saw Buffy at all; most of her toiletries vanished, and she only stopped in for a bath once or twice a week. From overheard bits of conversation, it seems she had gone to college. (Which, again, I had heard of via U.S. News and World Report. The Walmart checkout stand was all the education I had needed.)

At some point, Buffy acquired a boyfriend, Riley. I hated him. One time they took a shower together, and it was appalling how he misread her signals, barely spending a moment halfheartedly trying to bring her pleasure before she gave up and devoted herself to pleasuring him instead. He didn’t do anything for her after, either, just thanked her and washed up. He used me to scrub his back, and I cringed at the experience. He tasted funny -- sour, like chemicals and old sweat. 

Buffy didn’t say his name when she took a bath alone with me the next night; she came with Spike’s name on her lips, though it was a guilty whisper. Once again, I wondered about Spike. Was he someone forever out of her reach? Or perhaps promised to another? I am not human, of course, but it seemed to me that Buffy would have been better off with someone whose memory drenched her with arousal than with a cloddish bad-tasting oaf who couldn’t find her erogenous zones with a compass and a map. Cosmo would agree, I am sure, as would Ladies Home Journal; occasionally Buffy or her mother would leave a magazine in the bathroom, so I had furthered my education in human nature.

He was rude and passive-aggressive to her as well. Not obviously, but as an interested observer I was aghast at the ways he found to undermine her confidence. It was clear that he felt insecure in their relationship and threatened by her feminine power. If only Buffy had read the article advertised on the cover of the August 2000 issue! Perhaps she might have recognized the fundamental problems before they became an issue. As it was, it seemed only I was aware of his seething resentment, boiling just under the surface of his nice-guy facade, peeking out when he felt unmanned by Buffy’s strength.

It was just such a moment I witnessed on the day all changed for me, the day I learned my true nature. 

I was in the bathroom, of course, wondering if tonight would be a bath night; Buffy certainly seemed like she could use a break, perhaps some lovely private masturbation to relieve tension. I was disappointed when I heard the front door close and Riley’s heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

Buffy was in her bedroom, but with the door open I could hear their conversation as she greeted him, far more warmly than I felt he deserved.

“Thanks for coming over,” she said. “I really appreciate the help.”   
  
“Sure thing,” he replied. “So what do I do?”   
  
“Lots,” she said invitingly. “Tons. Lots and lots of tons. This is all kinda--”   
  
“New terrain?” There it was, the condescending tone of voice I had come to expect from him.   
  
“All prayin', no slayin',” Buffy laughed. “Okay, so the incense needs to be ignited... and there's a job. And this stuff needs to get poured around me in a circle, counter-clockwise--”   
  
“So you need me to light incense and pour sand?” His voice dripped dissatisfaction, which seemed unwarranted. What did he expect was involved in casting a spell, arm-wrestling and gunfire? Perhaps a caber toss?   
  
Buffy’s voice went small and defensive. “Magick incense... and spooky sand... and the ritual itself is--”   
  
“Something you do alone.” He sighed in annoyance. “You sure this isn't just your way of trying to   
make me feel less -- what are the words Xander used? -- weak and powerless?”   
  
“I never called you weak. I just was worried about you--”   
  
“Getting hurt on patrol, now that I’m just a man, not a super-soldier. Right. Much better.”

She was silent at that; I could feel her hurt as if it were my own.

“Look,” he said with a huff of frustration. “I really am okay.” He wasn’t.   
  
“I know,” Buffy replied quietly. But she didn’t, not really.   
  
Riley went on in a tone of such fake cheer I could not believe Buffy didn’t hear it. “So I'm not quite Super Guy anymore. It was borrowed power anyway. Had to give it back some time.”   
  
“I know you can handle yourself,” she said apologetically. “I just didn't want to see you get hurt.”   
  
“Maybe instead of you trying to take care of me, we agree to take care of each other. Deal?”

Did he even realize how little sense that made? That “taking care of each other” in fact  _ required  _ Buffy to try to take care of him? But no, he clearly didn’t, or he didn’t care, because whatever he said, he didn’t actually want a relationship in which Buffy was his equal. He wanted to be the man, to be the one in charge, and it was killing him that she was stronger, that she was Chosen. 

And it was killing her, trying to live down to his expectations.   
  
But Buffy didn’t see that, didn’t recognize his bitterness. “Done,” she said gratefully, as if he had done her a favor.   
  
I heard a faint smack of a kiss. “For luck.”    
  
“Hey, a girl needs more luck than that,” Buffy replied coyly.   
  
After what sounded like a perfectly boring smooch, Riley said, “Have a nice trip.”

And then he left. Without, as near as I could tell, either lighting incense or pouring sand, as Buffy had requested.

What kind of  _ man  _ responds to a plea for help from the woman he loves by belittling her request as unworthy of his efforts, making her feel bad for wanting him safe, and then leaving without even doing the things she had specifically requested he come over to do? What if the requirements of the spell meant she could not do those things for herself? Had he even asked? Kind of a jerk move, if you ask me.

But I think my opinions of Riley are clear, and may perhaps be a trifle biased. After all, he really did taste vile. Also, I am finding that the more Cosmo covers I read, the less I am inclined to put up with his toxic nature; Buffy absolutely deserves better. If I could move, I would be certain to leave a certain September issue open to an appropriate quiz, so perhaps she could see it for herself.

But in any case it seems Buffy managed to cast the spell despite his refusal to assist; I heard the flick of a lighter, and soon the scent of incense wafted through the halls of the Summers home. I listened sharply, but all I heard was the deep rush of her breathing, slowing and evening until it was like the sound of water rushing through the pipes. Silence reigned, and I waited.

It was a long time later when I heard her breath catch. 

It was strange, for while I was not privy to the spell she had cast, I could somehow feel the weight of the magic as she arose from her meditation, scent the power emanating from her as she walked slowly down the hall. Perhaps it was my true nature making me sensitive to astral forces, or perhaps it was simply that Buffy and I had grown so close over the years that I had become attuned to her aura. In any case, I could feel it as she walked down the stairs to meet her mother.

I heard them speaking, though their voices were muffled and I did not understand the words, but eventually Joyce left, and I heard Buffy’s footsteps slowly coming back up the stairs.

“Nothing’s different,” I heard her mutter, her voice oddly distorted. “Why am I not seeing anything different?”

And then she appeared in the doorway, the magicks hovering about her like a fine mist.

She looked around the bathroom, confused, her hands trailing over the sink, catching in the shower curtain, and then her eyes fixed on me and they widened.

“What the hell?” she whispered, and then she took me in her hand, looking at me as if I had sprouted leaves, or started to sing the blues. Her eyes focused strangely, as if she were seeing through me, and I quivered under her gaze. “That’s weird,” she murmured thoughtfully, turning me over and over in her hands.

The phone rang.

Buffy took me downstairs with her when she went to answer the phone, setting me on a side table and seating herself across the room. She watched me warily as she spoke, which was a bit hurtful, but perhaps the spell she’d cast had revealed to her just how devoted I was to her health and well-being and skin texture? I could not know.

“What?” she said into the phone, listening to the voice on the other end. “Go on.”

I could hear the voice on the other end saying something about a sphere.

“What’s it do?” Buffy’s eyes narrowed speculatively, and she glared at me, though she also looked confused. “Any word on what this evil looks like?”

The voice went on for some time. I suspect there was exposition.   
  
“I'm going to go back to the factory where I found it,” Buffy said at last. “Whoever planted   
this doohickey's got answers.”

I hoped by “doohickey” she didn’t mean me. Of course, I had been planted, or my mother luffa tree had been, once upon a time, but I am fairly certain that was in Thailand or Bhutan, not a factory in California, and in any case I was quite certain I was not evil. Surely she didn’t… suspect me? Doubt me?

I felt a sudden stab of hurt. After all I had done for her, assisting in her ecstasy and keeping her skin creamy and touchable, she  _ did  _ doubt me. Whatever spell she had cast, it had made her believe I was a loofah of evil! It was enough to make a loofah weep.

Buffy kept watching me, cupping the phone to her face as she replied to the person on the phone. “That's the thing,” she whispered urgently. “I just saw--” She broke off abruptly, laughing. “Nothing. It didn't work.” She hung up the phone and walked over to stand before me, her gaze hard.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I’m not really sure what’s going on, or why the only curtain this stupid spell is pulling back is apparently a shower curtain, but either I have just discovered a really complicated alternative to LSD, or--” Her eyes narrowed in warning. “--strange things are afoot in Loofahland.” She pointed at me accusingly. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back soon.”

She turned and swept out the front door.

I do not know how long she was gone. I took advantage of the time to admire this very-different part of Buffy’s home. Really, they did have a lovely space. Homey and comfortable, yet classy, dressed up with some truly enchanting photos of Buffy and her mother. All they needed was a bowl of fruit, an accent sculpture, perhaps some throw pillows in a contrasting fabric, and the living room might well belong on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens. Certainly Good Housekeeping, at the very least.

Buffy’s mother came home, fixed herself a cup of tea, gave me a curious look, and went up to bed; still I waited for I knew not what, until finally I heard the door open, and Buffy stood before me again. She was considerably more rumpled, and indeed looked like she had been in a terrible battle. Oh, how I yearned to ease all her little achies! But instead of taking me up to the bath she so clearly deserved, she picked me up and stared at me, like she’d never seen a loofah before in her life.

“This?” she said at last, voice rough with pain. “This is the Key that the monks sent me? Oh, you have got to be kidding me!”

I had no idea what she meant, but I could tell that somehow everything had changed, and my life as a simple loofah was over. No more would I simply live for my Buffy’s needs.

There was no bath that night.

END CHAPTER 1


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Buffy took me someplace new.

She transported me in a canvas bag that smelt vaguely of chlorine, moving swiftly through the streets as if she were in a hurry; I saw flashes of sunlight and trees and buildings, and then a bell jingled as she entered a building that had a strange scent, herbs and spices and exotic perfumes mingled with dust and age and… was that slug? It was hard to tell through the chlorine. But I remembered my childhood, and the odor was very like the slugs that would crawl upon my mother luffa’s bark; it filled me with hopeless nostalgia for that simpler time.

I could hear Buffy speaking, her words muffled by the canvas, and then her dear hand removed me from my transport and I was set in the very center of a huge round wooden table. A middle-aged man was looking at me, brow furrowed in confusion. Beyond him I could see displays of candles and jars with unfamiliar contents, unusual figurines and weaponry, and shelves full of ancient books -- a shop as unlike Walmart as a shop could be. 

“What is that?” the man asked in a cultured accent.

“It’s a loofah,” Buffy replied.

He rolled his eyes discreetly. “Yes, I can see that. What I rather meant was, why is it here?”

Buffy sighed. “Giles, remember the spell I was casting? The curtain call spell?”

“ _ Tirer la Couverture, _ yes. But you said it didn’t work.”

“Well, it did and it didn’t. It didn’t show me anything hovering around my mom, which is a problem. But when I took a look around the rest of the house, I found one thing weird.” She gave me a poke. “This loofah of mine kept fading in and out of existence.”

What? That couldn’t be. Surely I existed! I was right here on the table, listening!

“Really? How very peculiar.” Giles leaned in closer, peering at me far too closely for my comfort. We hadn’t even been introduced!

“Oh, that was just the tip of the peculiar-berg.” Buffy sighed and rested her chin on her arms, looking at me thoughtfully. “So, you know how I was going to check on the place where I found the Dadgum Sphere?”

“The Dagon Sphere, yes,” Giles let out a long-suffering-yet-affectionate sigh.

“So I went to the warehouse, and there was some monk guy with the bowliest of bowl-cuts all tied to a chair, and then when I went to untie him some skanktastic chick in a cocktail dress and heels tried to get the drop on me. And she was no ordinary bridesmaid-wannabe, either. Girl packed a wallop.”

“Dear Lord. Are you all right?” His voice echoed my own concern.

“The jury is still out on that one.” She sat back up, stretching gingerly. “No broken bones, but my body may well be one big bruise. Giles, she was way stronger than me. After a few rounds of learning-to-fly-badly -- which is way less fun than it looked on The Greatest American Hero -- I decided running away was the better part of valor and got the hell out of Dodge with Friar Bowl-Cut. Jumped out a second-story window, which was also less fun than popular media suggests. It sounded like the warehouse collapsed after that; I don’t know what happened to her, but she didn’t follow us. Given the way she laughed when I punched her, though, I doubt she was even hurt, whatever happened. She’ll be back.”

“And where is the monk now?”

Buffy sighed, eyes shifting away. “City morgue. He, um, didn’t make it. She’d roughed him up pretty good before I got there, and I doubt the fall helped, even though I shielded him.”

Giles removed his glasses. “Buffy….”

She shrugged, trying and failing to look careless. “Not the first I haven’t been able to save, and I’m sure he won’t be the last. Anyhow, before he… before he lost consciousness, he talked.”

The bell chimed then, cheerily; both Buffy and Giles startled and looked at the door as a smartly-dressed blonde with perfectly-exfoliated skin bustled in.

“Good morning, boss! I’m here to start my first day as a working gal!”

Buffy’s eyebrows shot up. “You work here now?”

“Giles hired me!” She was bubbling with enthusiasm. “I impressed him yesterday with my boundless energy, my tasteful gift-wrapping skills, and my keen eye for making a profit.” She came to a sudden halt, glaring at Buffy jealously. “He didn’t hire you, too, did he?”

“No, Anya. Buffy is not here to mind the shop. The goal, as you may recall, is to reduce demon incursions and destruction, not invite them.”

“Oh. Well, that’s all right then.” She looked around. “So where’s the time clock so I can punch in?”

“There is no time clock. You may write your hours down and tot them up at the end of the week,” Giles replied.

“Well, that’s disappointing. I was really looking forward to doing the whole  _ Nine to Five _ montage -- you know, take your card from the slot on one side, punch it, stick it in the slot on the other side. That little punching sound always seemed so satisfying, like an exclamation point on income.”

“Yes, well, you shall have to live with the meager, unpunctuated satisfaction of merely being paid.”

“That’ll do, boss.” Anya tucked her purse under the counter. “So, where are the customers?”

“If yesterday is any indication, they’ll be descending upon us like henna-tattooed locusts shortly. In the meantime, perhaps you could inventory something downstairs?”

“Sounds boring, but I guess I can.” She glanced at me then. “Nice loofah. Are we expanding into bath products, then? I know a good source for artisanal creams and lotions, wholesale pricing. Bath and Body Works won’t know what hit them.” I was beginning to like the cut of this Anya’s jib; certainly the world would be a better place if more people had loofahs to relieve their tensions!

Giles, alas, was not on board with this plan for world peace. “I think it would be prudent to wait a trifle more than twenty-four hours after the Grand Opening before we, er, expand operations.”

Anya nodded sagely. “Tomorrow, then.” She bustled off towards the back of the shop and disappeared.

“So,” Giles said quietly when Anya’s footsteps had faded. “What did the monk have to say?”

Buffy replied in hushed tones. “Well, first he started raving about some ‘Key.’ How I must protect the Key, and if I don’t keep it safe, many more would die.”

“The Dagon Sphere?”

“That’s what I thought! But no, he went off on how it was energy to open some portal, and how his brethren had been protecting it for centuries from something he called the Abomination.” She rolled her eyes. “I can only assume he meant the Crazy Lady in Red. Anyhow, he said that they had to hide the Key, and so they sent it to me.”

“Really? How?”

“Not by the postal service,” Buffy laughed shortly. “No, the monk said they did a scrying, whatever that is, over a period of several months, so they could find a form that I would be certain to protect with my life. Something I had a well-established personal relationship with, that they could count on me to keep nearby. And then when they had given it form, they rebuilt the memories of it, in me and my mom and everyone who would ever have seen it, so that it was like it had been there for years.”

“My god. Is it a person, then? Someone new to your life, that you love for inexplicable reasons?” Giles narrowed his eyes. “Riley, perhaps?”

“No!” Buffy frowned. “And what do you mean, inexplicable reasons?”

“Never mind. I fear I am stumped, then. Who is this Key?”

“It’s not a who, it’s a what.” Buffy nodded in my direction.

He followed her gaze, brow furrowed, and then snorted. “You must be joking.”

“Nope.” Buffy reached out and sent me spinning with her finger. “The portal-opening, potentially-world-destroying Key was given the form of my loofah. They, um, said they knew I would protect it.”

I was filled with joy at her words. While I knew I held a special place in her life, this was the first time she had spoken of how much my labors mattered to her. So much so that an outside observer could see her devotion! I was deeply moved.

Giles was silent for a long time before he replied. “You have a well-established personal relationship with your loofah?”

Buffy turned pink. “Well, I do, um... use it every day. On my skin.”

“Indeed.”

“Exfoliation is super important, you know.”

“Indeed.” Giles looked away awkwardly, as if he well knew but did not wish to contemplate the other ways in which Buffy might have used me. 

“And, you know, they do call it _ personal  _ hygiene.” Buffy gave me another spin. “Just for the record, what’s ‘scrying?’”

“Oh.” Giles looked relieved at the change of subject. “Well, it’s a form of divination. One looks into a reflective or translucent medium -- a bowl of water, or a crystal ball, for example -- and sees visions of what one is seeking.”

Buffy’s eyes widened. “Wait, visions? So the monks  _ watched  _ me… exfoliating? For  _ months _ ?”

“That is rather the implication.” Giles removed his glasses and began to clean them.

“Those bastards,” Buffy muttered. “Oh, but that’s another thing. Giles, do you know how long a loofah lasts?”

“Well, they are organic plant matter, so I can’t imagine it’s very long.” Giles replaced his glasses and gave me another searching look.

“Three weeks. That’s how often you’re supposed to change your loofah, according to all the magazines. Sooner if it gets gross. Do you know how long I remember owning this particular loofah?”

“Months?”

“Try years.” Buffy folded her arms, sitting back in her chair. “From what I remember, I bought this very loofah in Los Angeles in the summer of 1998.”

“Really?” Giles picked me up, then, turning me over in his hands to look at me again from all angles. “How extraordinary! You said that they’d rebuilt your memories?”

She nodded. “I guess they took my memories of all the loofahs I had owned since then, and squished them all into one.” 

“Was that the first time you had purchased a loofah?”

Buffy blinked. “No. I’d had loofahs before that. I mean, I was a teenager, Giles. Exfoliation was like the holy sacrament of Seventeen Magazine.”

“Hmm.” Giles squinted at me more closely. “Why do your memories of this loofah begin in Los Angeles, then? You’d think a longer association would give the Key more emotional weight. What was different about that loofah?”

Buffy’s cheeks turned redder. “They didn’t say.”

“Seems a trifle short-sighted, transforming an interdimensional Key into an object with an expected lifespan of three weeks.”

“I’ve been trying to figure out exactly when the real memories started, when the Key-loofah showed up,” Buffy said hesitantly. “I think it may have been right after Dracula left town. It’s like… like my memories of, um, exfoliating before that are a little too bright? And that was a lot more than three weeks ago, too. I think it’s safe to say this is no ordinary loofah. Maybe it’s immortal?”

“An immortal loofah?” Giles snorted out a laugh. “But do go on. What is it about your post-Dracula skin-care regimen that felt different?”

I remembered that night. Buffy had come to the bath quivering with annoyance -- alone, thankfully, as Riley had apparently been in a snit and gone to his own apartment -- and after a good relaxing soak, she had turned to me, and to visions of the mysterious Spike, for comfort, bringing herself off again and again as she muttered strange things like  _ I know what my body is capable of! _ and  _ who’s the slayer anyways you Teutonic jerk? _ and  _ true nature my sweet patootie! _ and at the very end, when she finally let go of her anger and gave herself over to pleasure,  _ yes, Spike, help me find my darkness. God, please. _ She was right, the memory of that night held a particular resonance, a special sort of clarity, for me as well.

So that had been our true first time. 

Buffy clearly remembered it as well, from the way she was avoiding eye contact with her confidante. “It just felt different. Giles, I think we’re getting caught up in unimportant nitpicky details and losing track of the fact that I am now expected to protect, with my life, a treasured bath accessory.” She picked me up then, cradling me in her hands. “I have to keep it safe, Giles. It’s not just what the monk said, either. I can feel it in my bones. Even having it here, sitting out in the open, makes me uneasy.” 

Giles cleared his throat. “This... woman, this, uh, whatever she was... she knows you now. Should we be thinking about... hiding this loofah away? Perhaps putting it in a safety deposit box?”

Buffy looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook her head. “Too risky. If she found out I had something locked away, she’d know it was the Key, and then she’d just tear the bank apart to get it. Probably kill all the employees. No, Giles, they sent the Key to me. I think… I have to take care of it. I want to.” She sighed, looking at me quizzically. “I guess the safest thing is to just pretend nothing has changed. If we hide it, we’ll reveal it for sure.”

“So you’re going to continue to... exfoliate with an interdimensional Key?” Giles raised his eyebrows in clear disbelief.

Buffy didn’t answer for a long time, still eyeing me. “That might not be a good idea,” she finally said. “But I can pretend.” 

I could have wept. What joy would I have in life, if I could not bring her pleasure and soft skin? 

Giles shrugged in acceptance, indifferent to my pain. “Do we tell the others?”

Buffy’s reply was swift and hard. “No. No one. It’s safer for everyone if they don’t know.”

“Yes.” Giles heaved suddenly to his feet, starting to pace. “We have to find out who this woman is, and what she needs the loofah for.”

Buffy picked me up and looked at me thoughtfully.

“I mean, if she comes after you--”

“She'll come,” Buffy said shortly. “She'll come for us. I have to be ready.”

And with that, she tucked me away in her chlorine-scented bag.

*

True to her promise, Buffy took me home and set me in my usual corner, casually arranging bath products around me so that I was mostly hidden from view, and there I sat for days, untouched even when she did bathe there. It was deeply depressing, particularly when Buffy tried to masturbate without my assistance; it was hard to watch, and apparently harder for her to find release, and in the end I believe we were both unsatisfied. I wanted to beg her not to withhold herself from me, just because I was a mystical Key capable of opening dimensional portals by some as-yet-unknown method. At the same time, I understood her concerns and her conflict; certainly my feelings were not nearly as important as saving the world, and so I waited patiently.

A few days after our visit to the mysterious Giles, there was an unusual amount of activity in the Summers household, all sorts of thumping and conversation coming from Buffy’s room across the hall. When one of her friends came in and started to unpack a box of Buffy’s toiletries, it became clear that she was returning home. I did not flatter myself that it was for me; her mother’s illness worried me as well, even though I only rarely caught glimpses of Joyce’s pain. 

Some time later, after all but Riley had departed, I heard the front door open.

“Honey, I’m home!” Buffy’s voice was full of forced cheer.

I heard Riley’s heavy tread on the stairs. “Did you have a good day at work?”

“It’s a rat race.” Buffy’s lighter footsteps came upstairs and started down the hall.

“I squared away the rest of your stuff,” Riley said as they approached the bathroom. “Wouldn’t even know you ever left.”

Buffy turned to face him just outside the bathroom door. “Oh, you’re a god. You’re like the… god of boyfriends.”

“Nah,” he said smugly. “I just like it when you owe me favors.”

“Well, this earns you a big favor,” Buffy coyly replied. “There could be outfits.”

“Ooh. Be still my heart.”

I wondered briefly as they kissed what “big favors” her other friends who had assisted with the move might be expecting, but then Buffy turned and came into the bathroom, her eyes zeroing in on me like a laser for a brief moment before they skittered away, relieved. “I see all my bath products survived the move.”

“Yeah. Hey, want me to get rid of some of this old stuff?” Riley stepped past her and picked up a few of the bottles shielding me. 

As his fingers closed around me, Buffy’s eyes widened. “No!”

He turned in confusion, adding me to his armload of bottles. “What, you really need this last quarter inch of shampoo? And this loofah’s been there for months. You’re supposed to get a new one every--”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Buffy nearly screeched, reaching out before he could drop me in the trash. “That, um, that shampoo’s really expensive. And I can’t afford a new loofah right now.” She snatched me out of his hands, along with the bottles. 

His eyebrows went up. “Since when? They only cost--”

Buffy glared at him. “The loofah stays. Along with this--” She snuck a glance at the bottles. “--Suave Perm Care Shampoo and Conditioner.”

He frowned, clearly offended by her vehemence. “You don’t have a perm.”

She tossed her hair defiantly. “I was thinking of getting one.”

“Really?” He made a face. “I like your hair the way it is.”

“Well, it’s my hair. I can perm it if I want to.” Buffy tried to get past him in the narrow bathroom. “I don’t try to get you to change your looks.”

“What’s wrong with my looks?” he grumbled.

“Nothing!” Buffy finally worked her way past him, fussily arranging me and my Suave Perm Care barricade in the corner where we’d been. 

He sighed in exasperation. “Look, I’ll buy you--”

“No!” She ran a hand through her hair. “Sorry. Just… this move, Mom being sick, it’s making me crazy.”

“That's ... kinda the word I was searching for.”

She flinched very slightly, adjusting the arrangement of bottles. “Look, a woman’s skin care regimen is… well, it’s kinda personal. You haven’t had any complaints, have you?”

He got a funny look in his eye, like he did have some complaints, but he pressed his lips together and made that exasperated noise again. “No.” He folded his arms. “You want to tell me what’s really bothering you?”

Buffy rolled her eyes before turning back to him. “Um, other than my mom having mystery headaches and a demon chick killing innocent monks and giving me lots of exciting new bruises? I mean, I don’t know what I’m up against.”

“If we're in trouble here I could contact Graham, maybe get the government boys on it--”

“No,” she said firmly. “I can take care of this. Plus, since when do we even trust them? You were hiding out in a cave to avoid--”

“Just a suggestion,” he snapped.

“Look, the fewer people that are involved, the safer I will feel.”

“Every time I think I'm getting close to you….” Riley shook his head. “I gotta take off.” He turned to leave.

I was confused. From what I could see she had told him about everything that was bothering her, except for my identity as the Key. Did he truly have no comfort or assistance for her in the matters of an ailing mother and a mysterious, super-strong enemy? 

Buffy echoed my disbelief. “Wait! What?” She took a few steps after him. “Are you mad because I don’t want you throwing my stuff away? Or because I don’t trust the New and Improved Initiative?”

“I'll call you later,” he growled.

Buffy took another step. “Riley!” He stopped in the doorway, back stiff. “I want you to help,” she said softly. “I'm not--”

He barely glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah. Know you got a lot on your mind. You decide you wanna let me in on any of it, let me know. I'll come running.”

Buffy sank down on the toilet seat lid as his angry footsteps thudded down the stairs and the front door slammed. “But I was….” she said softly, looking at the doorway in confusion. “God, what am I doing wrong?” She let out a sound between a sob and a sigh, and then turned to look at me, eyes red, before standing and stalking out of the room, her back resolute.

I fear I had no answer for her.

*

Perhaps a week later, in the wee hours of the morning, I was pondering what might be “The Love Mistakes Even Smart Women Make” from the cover of a year-old issue of Cosmo when I heard Buffy and Riley whispering in the hall before they came into the bathroom.

“Mom didn’t hear you bringing me in?” Buffy whispered as she came through the door, moving slowly and stiffly. I was instantly filled with concern; I had seen her injured many a time, but there was a strained look to her face that was new and unsettling.

“Top-ranked on my squad for fieldcraft. You should hear how quiet I can be in a forest.” Riley had his hand tucked under Buffy’s elbow, though she wasn’t leaning on his support. 

“Or not hear,” Buffy chuckled, cutting off with a hiss of pain. “You know. Because you’re so quiet.”

“Unlike you right now,” he grumbled. “Your mom might still wake up if you insist on--”

“I just need to see it. Her door’s closed, anyhow.” Buffy limped up to the mirror and pulled up her shirt to her ribcage. A pad of rumpled, bloodstained fabric had been lashed to her belly with strips of the same fabric. “Your shirt?”

“Didn’t exactly have a medkit in my pocket,” he muttered, sounding put out.

“No, it’s awesome. Thanks for stopping me from bleeding out.” She poked at the fabric. “Did you get the guy?”

“No,” he said shortly, with a huff of exasperation.. “Okay. Let me disinfect that right, get a fresh bandage on it. Something sterile.”

“Slayers don’t really--” Buffy sighed. “Yeah, okay. I’m in your hands, Doctor Finn.” She turned and leaned against the sink as he knelt to unwind the makeshift wrapping. 

“Slayers don’t get infected?” he said, light tone sounding forced.

“Not usually.” She grimaced as he started to peel the pad of fabric away. “Giles says it’s something about the platelets. My immune system is normal-girl otherwise. I can still get sick, but wounds don’t--” She cut off with another hiss.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. Get it off.” She closed her eyes, wincing. “Make sure you get that way down in the trash. I don’t want Mom seeing it.”

Riley grimaced at her exposed wound. “You should go to the hospital. This needs stitches.”

“No way. Mom would freak.” She turned and looked at the oozing wound in the mirror. “Wowza.”

I had to agree; although the hole in her stomach was just trickling blood, not gushing, it still looked deep and painful.

Riley reached past her to wet a washcloth. “Come on, I’ll drive.”

“I said no. Just clean it up and let’s get a new bandage on. I’ll be fine.”

Riley pressed his lips together, clearly upset, but he cleaned off the dried and fresh blood, slathered the wound with antiseptic gel, and taped on a fresh pad of gauze from the first aid kit. “There,” he whispered grudgingly, standing. “You’re all set to patrol again.”

She laughed softly. “I was thinking it was bedtime. Even my super-platelets need time to work.” She hooked a finger in his belt loop. “You up for some healing snuggles?”

He shrugged. “Could be convinced.” He kissed her briefly, then held out his arms. “Need help getting back to your room.”

“No, I can walk on my own,” she smiled, turning and walking gingerly out of the room. 

Riley glared at the bloodied pile of fabric before bending to stuff it to the bottom of the trash can. “You sure can,” he muttered, and followed her out the door.

I fretted about her for the rest of the night and into the morning, until I heard her speaking to Riley again across the hall, and then her mother, who was putting a brave front on her own pain. When Riley agreed to patrol with the rest of Buffy’s friends so that she could rest, I heaved a sigh of relief (or would have, had I lungs) knowing she was going to rest and heal. And she did rest for a while after Riley left, though fitfully; after an hour or two, she staggered grouchily into the bathroom.

“Let’s face it,” she muttered into the mirror. “You are not going to sleep easy until you have some answers.” And with that she placed a phone call -- to Giles, if I heard correctly -- and was gone.

The house was quiet once she left, other than a phone call that Joyce answered in hushed, serious tones. Shortly after that, she came upstairs and into the bathroom, muttering to herself as she gathered things.

“Facial cleanser, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo…. Where is my conditioner?”

It was under the sink, where it was always kept, but for some reason she didn’t look there, instead digging through the plastic caddy of Buffy’s shower things and then the products set out around the tub, picking up the bottles one by one and staring at them for a moment before setting them down again. She even picked me up, turning me over and over in her hands as if she expected me to turn into a bottle of conditioner, before tucking me back in place, sighing in frustration, and going back to her room, where she continued to open drawers and talk to herself. 

She never checked under the sink.

It wasn’t until late that evening that Buffy returned; I heard her rummaging around in the kitchen before she came upstairs to her mother’s room.

“Hey, I put together that grocery list for you,” Buffy said, sounding confused.

“Oh, great,” Joyce said sweetly. “Thanks, hon.”

There was a pause. “Are you okay?” Buffy asked, voice small.

“I’m fine,” Joyce cheerfully replied. “Have you seen my conditioner?”

“Did you look under the sink?”  _ Where it always is _ went unspoken, but I could feel her thinking it anyhow.

Joyce bustled into the bathroom then, face troubled, and retrieved her bottle of conditioner. She paused, schooling her face back to placidity and taking a deep breath, as if bracing herself for a hard battle, before returning to her bedroom.

“Where are you going?” Buffy asked, voice carefully neutral. 

“Oh,” Joyce said, determinedly casual. “I was hoping to put this off, but… you know the nothing that I’ve been dealing with the last couple of weeks? It might not be nothing.”

Buffy’s voice was laced with dread. “What is it?”

“I’m staying overnight at the hospital for observation. I’m getting a CAT scan.” Joyce was clearly trying to reassure Buffy. “It’s only one night, and they say even if there is something, it’s still very early if they didn’t see it before. I’m going to be fine.”

“I know you will,” Buffy replied bravely. “Can I… can I help you pack? Or get you some tea?”

“No, I’m, um, not allowed to eat or drink anything.” Joyce sighed. “They want to be prepared for the results, in case I need something else after. More tests. Blood work.” She paused. “Surgery. But I’m almost packed. Thank you, though.”

“Do they think…?” Buffy trailed off.

“They don’t know, honey.” There was the sound of a zipper. “There, all ready. And the cab should be here any minute.”

“I’ll come with,” Buffy said quickly. “I want to.”

“No.” Joyce’s voice was firm. “We won’t know anything until after the CAT scan, and that’s scheduled for nine tomorrow. There’s no reason for you to sit up all night in a waiting room. Why don’t you just get a good night’s sleep? You can come see me in the morning, okay?“

“Okay.” Buffy’s voice was small and frightened, though she was obviously trying to sound strong.

“Don’t worry,” Joyce said in a soothing voice. “I’m going to be all right, I promise. I’m sure it’s nothing. And Summers women are tough.”

“Yeah,” Buffy said quietly. “We are.”

There was a honk from outside.

“Oh! That must be the cab. Buffy, could you please tell him I’ll be down in a minute? I just need to throw on a jacket.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Buffy’s footsteps were heavy on the stairs.

I could hear Joyce rustling around her bedroom, and then she heaved a deep breath, letting it out on a sigh. “God, I hope it’s nothing,” she whispered to herself, and then she was gone.

Fraught with worry, I listened for my poor Buffy to come upstairs, but there was only the sound of the front door and then the back door opening and closing. I listened as closely as I could, but even in the still of the night I could only hear the faintest sound of sobbing, and then a whisper of a conversation. Although I couldn’t hear the words, the timbre of her companion’s voice was unfamiliar -- not Riley returned from patrol, then, nor Giles. 

Much later, I heard her tread on the stairs, still heavy, as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. She was alone again, her mystery companion gone, and I yearned to once again bring her comfort in her misery. I expected her to go straight to her own room, but instead I heard her walking slowly around her mother’s bedroom, occasionally sniffling.

Eventually her wanderings took her to the bathroom. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and she was quivering with frustrated energy. She walked around the bathroom, trailing her fingers over the surfaces of the bathroom, the shower curtain, the towels, lingering on the handle of the sink cabinet. Her face twisted as she moved on, sitting heavily on the closed toilet lid. She buried her face in her hands.

“Stupid confusing vampire,” she whispered. “Why is it always you?”

I perked up my (figurative) ears. She’d never spoken of vampires as anything other than her natural prey, something she’d never seemed confused about, and yet her words also implied a long association with the mysterious “stupid” vampire. I could not help but be intrigued at the very concept. 

But she wept then, the kind of wracking, exhausted sobs that come after one is almost cried out, and my musings faded away into concern for her. It seemed unfair to me, that she who nightly risked her life for the world’s safety should also be subject to trauma at home, but it seemed clear that a human life must always be tragically subject to grief, poor fashion decisions, and unsatisfying sex. (Or so, at least, I had inferred from the many articles addressing such in the magazines that came within my view.) In many ways I, a mere loofah, had a much simpler and more blissful existence, even when one added in the fact that I was a much-sought-after mystical Key with the ability to open dimensional portals. 

Eventually Buffy’s tears dissolved away into sniffles, and after rubbing impatiently at her eyes she stood and looked at herself in the mirror. 

“‘Get a good night’s sleep,’” she grumbled, voice rough. “How am I supposed to sleep when…?” She paced the length of the bathroom, staring into her mother’s room for a moment before whirling back and stalking over to the tub, turning on the water as hot as it could go. She winced when she bent over the tub, clutching at her stomach.

As the tub filled, she continued to pace, hands clutching her elbows. “Stupid vampire,” she muttered. “Stupid, evil, stupid vampire. Stupid hospitals, stupid headaches, stupid Buffy…” She stopped in front of the mirror again, glaring at herself. “I don’t have a death wish,” she declared fiercely, then turned away again. “Stupid vampire. It would never be you.”

She paused in the middle of the tile floor, looking lost. “What were you even trying to…?” She touched her lips briefly. “No. He hates me. He wouldn’t…. No.” She sat on the edge of the tub, staring at the rising water for a long moment before she shook her head sharply. “No.” She bent and unzipped her boots.

Buffy undressed swiftly, her movements jerky and abrupt; when she was down to just her underwear, she grimaced and pulled off the taped gauze bandage, poking at the already-half-healed wound. “Yay slayer platelets,” she murmured, shedding her bra and panties, and then slipped into the steaming bath, hissing at the water’s heat.

She sat for a few minutes with her face pressed to her knees, arms wrapped tight around her legs, but as her muscles unwillingly relaxed from the heat she managed to sit back, eyes closed, tears still occasionally trickling down her face to mingle with sweat. Her hands were still tense, fidgeting on the edges of the tub, and after a short while, she made an annoyed face and set her hands to her breasts, thumbs rubbing and plucking her nipples to erectness.

“You’re beneath me,” she whispered fiercely, one hand drifting down between her legs. “It would never be you.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, but I could see from my vantage point that she was already fiercely aroused, her clitoris erect and hard amid her swollen folds. Yet her ministrations seemed only to frustrate her more; she rubbed and stroked and caressed, but no matter how vigorously her fingers worked, her face betrayed her lack of release, until she abruptly swished her hand through the water, ceasing her self-pleasure. She sat there for a long moment, gasping in frustration, eyes screwed shut.

And then she opened them and looked at me, hard.

“I am probably going to hell for this,” she whispered, and then she took me in her hand.

I shuddered in ecstasy as she dipped me in the water. At long last!

“If this was how the portal opened, I’d be in the dimension with no shrimp by now,” she said in a reasonable tone of voice. “You’re just a normal, ordinary loofah. And I’m supposed to pretend nothing has changed, right?” She didn’t answer herself, just began to stroke me against her aroused flesh, biting back a cry of pleasure.

It took mere seconds to bring her to a peak of ecstasy -- I am, I must modestly admit, just the perfect mix of rough and gentle -- and she let her head fall back, relaxing for a moment, but then her brow furrowed and she dipped me beneath the water again, plying me in long, rough strokes until her thighs spasmed with the force of her orgasm.

She dropped me in the hot water and sat up, water sheeting off her perfect skin as she stood, and I was disappointed that our time together was over so soon, but then she seated herself on the edge of the tub, feet in the water, and she took me up and set me to her sweet nethers again, her free hand propped against the tile wall, and oh! I had never felt her arousal outside of water, and the sweet wet heat of her, undiluted, was even more delicious and slick and succulent than I had ever dreamed of. She was relentless, not even pausing when she came again but just scrubbing me harder, and soon I was drenched in her delectable juices.

“Why?” she moaned as she came a fourth time. “Why is it always you? Goddammit, Spike!” She was weeping yet again, whether from grief or from the impact of her release I did not know, and she rubbed and scrubbed and thrust her wet folds against me until she came so hard her whole body stiffened, and she sank into the water again, still stroking herself through shuddering aftershocks. 

When her body had relaxed completely, she swished me through the water, gave me a rueful look, and set me back in my place, briskly swishing water to cleanse herself

“Thanks,” she whispered, rolling her eyes as if embarrassed to be addressing me, and then made a disgusted face. “Though I am pretty sure I just achieved new heights of ‘messed up.’” She reached into the water and pulled the plug. “Stupid, confusing, evil vampire.” She stood and started to dry off.

My euphoria of fulfillment was rocked by a sudden realization. Was  _ Spike _ the “stupid vampire?” Spike, her imaginary lover of the past two years? He must be! How strange! If she’d spent the evening with him -- as her words implied -- why on earth had she not invited him up to her bed? While I was, as mentioned previously, well aware of my suitability for self-love, my readings had led me to understand that there are many enjoyable sexual practices for which a loofah is not useful, and from what I had witnessed of Riley, Buffy had hardly been honored with any of them. Surely she would have found making love to Spike far more relaxing than making use of my services? Perhaps he could employ some or all of the “Fifty Sex Moves” from the latest Cosmopolitan issue! Or the “Seven Best Orgasm Tricks in the World” from the issue before that! Or even the “Super Hot Sex Games” from the issue before that! The possibilities were endless.

Alas, Buffy neither heard nor answered my burning questions, simply wrapping a robe about herself and heading off to her room alone; shortly thereafter I could hear her breathing deepen and slow, as she fell into slumber alone.

Despite my joy that she had once again turned to me for comfort, my heart was breaking. She deserved happiness, my brave Slayer, and I vowed to do everything in my power to help.

But I was only a loofah. What could I do?

END CHAPTER 2

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER NOTES: Some dialogue adapted from s5e06 “Family” and s5e07 “Fool for Love.”


	3. Chapter 3

Buffy was gone before eight, showering briskly and running out the door with her hair still damp, and I was settling into my usual daydreams when I heard the door open again. The air was suddenly filled with an unusual scent, similar to the incense Buffy had used for her spell, but somehow muskier and less floral, and I heard an unfamiliar man’s voice.

“Slayer? You here?”

The timbre of the voice was similar to Giles’s but rougher and less refined; perhaps a distant cousin? It had to be someone close to Buffy, to enter the house uninvited, yet I had never heard him before.

“Must be at the hospital with Joyce already,” the voice muttered, and I waited for the door to open and close again, but instead I heard footsteps on the stairs. 

“Slayer?” came his voice from the hall, and after his light footsteps meandered up and down a few times, the visitor appeared in the bathroom doorway.

I would definitely have remembered seeing this man before. His hair was a shocking white-blond, slicked back with gel -- Bed Head brand, I judged approvingly from the scent, though it was overlaid with that musky incense-smell -- and his skin was even paler, paper-white under the bright bathroom bulbs. He was lean and muscular and moved with a predatory grace that reminded me of Buffy herself. His garb was black from head to toe -- T-shirt, jeans, and boots with a leather duster worn over all, and worn Doc Martens on his feet. He looked like he had walked right out of a “Why Good Girls Love Bad Boys” article, everything about him screaming that he could show a good girl an incredibly good time.

Oddly, his forehead appeared to be smoking.

He patted absently at the smoking bit of skin as he strolled about the room, eyes avidly curious. He investigated each of the bottles of product scattered about, opening a few to sniff them. When he came to the tub, his eyes lit on me with interest, and he picked me up, turning me over in his white fingers. Eyes drifting shut, he lifted me to his face and inhaled slowly.

“Well, well, well,” he said softly. “What have you been up to, Slayer?” There was a faint crunching sound, and suddenly his face had changed, his forehead suddenly bumpy and animalistic, his eyes now gleaming yellow instead of blue. The sight distracted me from my understandable chagrin at the liberties he had taken, and was taking again, breathing deeply as he held me to his nose.

“God,” he whispered, voice reverent. “Man could live on that scent for weeks.” I was flattered, of course, even knowing it was likely Buffy herself he was scenting; I could not help but appreciate a man who enjoyed the unique fragrance of Buffy’s arousal as much as I did. 

Except he wasn’t a man, was he? He grinned at me in a strangely affectionate way, and when I saw his fangs I knew: this was a vampire. And a vampire with an open invitation to Buffy’s home and the familiarity of long association -- not to mention a shortage of intelligence, seeing as he had been running about in daylight -- could be none other than the notorious “stupid, confusing vampire” Spike! I felt an immediate kinship with him, this vampire whose sexual proxy I had been for years, though I doubted he was aware that he was the focus of Buffy’s solitary passions.

His eyes flickered around the room, and he abruptly shook his head, his features shifting back to humanity. “Pity she’d notice if you were gone,” he said regretfully, and with another deep sniff he tucked me back where I had been and left the room. I could hear him moving across the hall, and drawers opening and closing in Buffy’s bedroom. Every so often I heard him inhale again, breathing deep of some scent or other.

A faint knock sounded downstairs.

“Hello? Buffy?”

It was Riley. I was feeling almost in charity with him today, after his tending of Buffy’s wound and shouldering of patrol duties, but his voice still grated on me, and I could not help but worry for Spike. Was Riley aware of Buffy’s attraction to the vampire? Whether he was or not, I could not imagine his being kindly disposed towards another man in his girlfriend’s room, from the irrational jealousy he’d displayed regarding Dracula.

It seems I was right to worry; Riley came swiftly up the stairs and went straight to Buffy’s bedroom. “What are you doing in here?”

Spike sounded startled. “What, me? I was, um... uh... What are  _ you _ doing here?” My goodness! For a bad boy, he certainly did get flustered easily.

Riley was understandably not distracted by Spike’s lame attempt at deflection. “Looking for the girl who's gonna rip your arms off when she finds out you were in her bedroom.”

“Oh yeah? Well... me too.” I had to hand it to him, he had chutzpah, if not smoothness.

“Were you... were you just smelling her sweater?” Riley sounded confused, which I suppose was not surprising, as he had always been a Philistine when it came to nuances of fragrance. (He wore Polo. _ Polo! _ )

“No,” Spike scoffed, then caved immediately. “Well, yeah, all right, I did. It's a predator thing, nothing wrong with it. Just... know your enemy's scent, whet the appetite for a hunt.” He sniffed again. “Ah, that's the stuff! Slayer musk, it's bitter and aggravating!” He growled dramatically.

I was fairly sure it was more of a twelve-year-old thing, the puppyish way he’d been mooning over Buffy’s possessions, but I’m quite certain he wouldn’t think of it that way, with his obviously-deliberate bad boy image. I wonder if he realized what a terrible liar he was? Even I could tell he found Buffy’s scent ambrosial. 

“Out,” Riley snapped, and I heard them thumping down the stairs.

“Hey, watch it!” Spike grumbled. “Easy, you're bruising the leather!” The thumping stopped; I could still hear them, their voices carrying up the stairs. “Look. I know for a bleeding fact the Slayer wouldn't mind me being here.”

”Right,” Riley bit out, sardonic. “What's a little sweater-sniffing between sworn enemies?”

Spike’s reply was smug. “Your girl in the habit of buying her enemies drinks? 'Cause she spent the better part of last night with me, doing just that.” 

So she  _ had _ spent the evening with him! And on a date! No wonder she’d been so aroused when she returned. The sexual tension must have been delicious!

Riley wasn’t buying it. “'Cause you guys are such tight pals.”

“Yeah.” Spike sounded less confident of this.

“That's good. Tell me another.”

“Okay, how 'bout this one. Twice in recent memory, she's had the lover-Wiccas do a de-invite on the house. Keep out specific vamps. Ever ask yourself why she's never taken my name off the guest list?” He was putting on a confident front, but there was a strange desperation in his voice, as if this was something he’d repeated to himself many a time, to convince himself of Buffy’s… friendship? Affection? Tolerance? 

Riley paused before answering, voice determined. “Because you're harmless.”

“Oh yeah, right,” Spike’s voice turned sly. “Takes one to know, I suppose. Least I still got the attitude. What do you got, a piercing glance? Face it, white bread. Buffy's got a type, and you're not it. She likes us dangerous, rough, occasionally bumpy in the forehead region. Not that she doesn't like you,” he went on, voice patronizing. “But sorry, Charlie, you're just not dark enough.”

There was the sound of a scuffle and the door opening; the musky incense scent wafted once again up the stairs, stronger than before -- and now I knew what it was. The smell of a vampire burning in the sun. How awful!

Spike’s voice was panicked. “Hey…. Hey! Hey! Hey!”

“Am I dark enough for you now?” Riley growled in a voice that made me shiver.

“Bloody-- pull me back in, you sod, I'm starting to sizzle!” I could hear it, a sickening hiss and pop.

“You don't know anything about Buffy, you never did,” Riley spat viciously. “I'm the one who knows what she needs.” 

I was quite certain he did not.

Spike echoed my disbelief, his voice laced with pain. “Oh yeah? That's why you're with her at hospital right now, giving her what she needs.”

The hiss of burning faded. “What are you talking about?”

“Don't you know, didn't she tell you?” Spike’s voice was still thready, but smug. Perhaps a bit vengeful, but I suppose to be expected after Riley had tried to set him on fire….

“You tell me.”

“Mum's sickly. Buffy took her to the hospital for a bit of prod 'n probe.” His roughened voice lowered, needling. “You know, it's-- it's funny her not calling you about that. I've known since last night.”

The sizzling started up again, stronger.

“Blanket! Blanket!” Spike’s voice was frantic. After a brief pause, I heard a muttered, “Thanks ever so, wanker!” from outside and then the sound of his footsteps retreating swiftly.

The door slammed shut.

I could hear Riley breathing fast at the bottom of the stairs, and then he sighed explosively. “I can’t believe it. Another vampire? What is she--” He made that exasperated sound I had grown to despise. “Why doesn’t she ever lean on me?”

He left, slamming the door behind him.

*

That evening, I was startled from a pleasurable daydream by a thunderous splintering crash that echoed up the stairs. I could not imagine what had caused the sound, but I did not have long to wonder; I heard the stairs creaking ominously and a sickly sandpapery sound, and then the doorway to the bathroom was filled by a horrible  _ thing. _

It was so huge it had to wriggle to fit in the door, a massive snake-thing like a cobra, except with strange beefy arms and clawed hands that one would think it could have used to open the front door instead of (I surmised) smashing it in, but I suppose when one is a cobra-demon one is not concerned with such niceties. Its tail extended out into the hall and presumably well down the stairs, and its greenish scales gleamed unpleasantly under the bathroom lighting. It lifted its hooded head nearly to the ceiling, forked tongue flickering in and out of its mouth as it seemed to test the air, and then suddenly its eyes turned to me in my corner, glowing a malevolent red. It let out a satisfied hiss and wriggled back out the door, slithering back down the creaking stairs and out of sight.

“No!” Buffy’s voice echoed up the stairs from outside; I heard more hissing and crashing. “Giles, what if it knows? I've gotta stop this monster before it gets back to Glory!”

“Glory?” Giles’s voice was faint, overlaid with the growl of a car engine. There was more distant crashing.

“That's what he called her. Giles, she's gonna know about--” Her voice cut off with the slam of a car door, and there was a squeal of tires, the engine revving loud and then fading into the distance.

It was strange. This was the first time I’d heard the name Glory, and yet the ring of it was like a death-knell in my heart. I knew instinctively that she was my nemesis, the abomination from which Buffy had been charged to protect me, and my fibers quivered in fear. I knew Buffy would do anything to keep me secure, but I was terrified for her. I could only trust in her strength and faithfully await her return, and pray for her safety.

Presuming there was a god who might listen to a loofah’s plea.

*

Whether or not there was divine intervention, Buffy did return home some time later; just when I was starting to worry anew, I finally heard her voice from downstairs.

“Another miracle for the God of Boyfriends. Keep this up, we’re going to need to build you a temple.” Her tone was cheerful, but there was an underlying note of fatigue.

“It was just a ride home,” Riley said shortly.

“Well, I really appreciate it. I did  _ not  _ feel up to walking.” There was a faint crunching sound. “Ugh, look at this mess.”

“Looks like the door’ll still close, at least. Xander and I can head by Home Depot tomorrow, get you a new one. Your mom won’t even know anything happened.”

“Until we get the bill. She loves those.” Buffy laughed tiredly. “What a day.”

“You okay? You look pretty beat up.”

She laughed again. “Minimal damage of the fighting kind. I’m mostly just… stressed. Worried.”

“Come here.”

“Mmm. Hugs good,” Buffy sighed. 

“It's okay,” Riley said. “Just let it out. I'm right here.”

“I can't,” Buffy sniffled. “Not now. Mom needs me to find her insurance stuff in the morning, call Pat at the gallery, all sorts of things. I have to stay strong. If I start crying now... I won't be able to stop.”

Riley was silent for a long time.  

Buffy sighed again. “Anyhow, thanks for meeting me at the hospital with that stuff Mom wanted. She was going nuts, thinking of being stuck in the hospital for another night without anything to do.”

“Yeah, you need sudoku books and trashy novels fetched, I’m your guy.” He sounded vaguely grouchy. “I brought them by the Magic Box but you’d already gone off to acquire all these attractive bruises.”

“I couldn’t just sit there,” Buffy said defensively. “I had to do something.”

“Right.”

“Trust me, beating up a huge snake was just what the doctor ordered. I can’t exactly punch Mom’s brain tumor, can I?” Buffy paused. “Giles didn’t mention you’d stopped by, but I guess he was super busy. All hands on deck trying to figure out who the new big bad is.”

“Yeah, so I noticed.”

“Did you guys find anything? I didn’t get to ask him.”

“Oh, I didn’t stick around,” Riley said lightly. “You know research isn’t my thing.”

“Oh yeah, that’s why you were working on your Masters degree in Psychology,” Buffy teased. “No research there.”

There was an awkward pause. “I had some things to take care of,” Riley said at last.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy murmured. “You’ve been doing so much for me.”

“Not really.”

Buffy sighed. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. When Mom’s out of the woods we’ll have a special date night. Candlelight, music, no gaping wounds….” She yawned.

“I can tell you’re thrilled at the thought.”

“No, I really am. I’m just… it’s been a long day. I’d better get to bed, visiting hours start at eight tomorrow and I have that to-do list from Mom. You staying?”

“While you’re enjoying your coma? I’ll pass.”

“Comas are better with snuggles,” Buffy murmured coyly.

“Not tonight. Um, patrol.”

“You are just racking up the boyfriend points,” she laughed. “Come tuck me in at least?”

“Sure.”

They came upstairs to the bathroom, where Buffy brushed her teeth and washed her face. She kept looking over at me, eyes shadowed; I could see she was stiff, though trying to move normally. Riley stood around looking uncomfortable, occasionally tugging at the collar of his turtleneck. When Buffy was done, they disappeared into the hall; some murmurs and whispers from the other room indicated Buffy had gotten a few of her snuggles after all.

Just when I thought they had both settled in for the night, patrol cancelled, Riley appeared in the bathroom doorway again. He didn’t fill it quite as full as the snake had, but for some reason he looked just as ominous, his jaw grimly set and his brow furrowed. I feared for a moment that he was on a mission to rid Buffy of old bath products again, but though he spared my corner a poisonous glance, I was not his real goal.

He stood in front of the mirror staring at himself for a long time before he peeled back the neck of his turtleneck to expose a pair of puncture wounds, still oozing blood.

“Oh, Sandy,” he murmured. “I told you my heart belonged to another.”

He pulled the first aid kit out from under the sink, briskly applied disinfectant, and taped a pad of gauze firmly over the wounds, roughly jerking the turtleneck back up when he was done.

“Now I know,” he whispered, then snorted. “And knowing is half the battle.”

He turned and left, thudding decisively down the stairs.

*

For several days, I saw little of Buffy; she returned to the house only to sleep, barely resting at all before she’d be up again and on her way back to the hospital. 

Relaxing baths were not part of her agenda, but it seemed that our shared moment the other night had broken down her reluctance to make use of me, as each morning when she showered, she would give her arms and legs a quick exfoliating scrub -- not enough, alas; her poor skin was still rougher than it should have been -- and then use me for hasty, desperate masturbation to relieve some of the tension that enveloped her body. Sometimes she wept as she leaned against the tile, shuddering with release, and I felt like weeping with her, though of course I had no tears to shed.

She had gotten in the habit of thanking me, which was, frankly, adorable -- especially since she had no idea I was sentient -- and of course unnecessary. It was I who should be grateful, I felt, being trusted with the honor of her pleasure and the joy of serving her in my own small, loofah-ish way.

A few nights after Joyce had left for the hospital, I heard her voice again, coming in the door with Buffy late at night.

“Oh, it’s good to be home!” she said, her voice saturated in relief.

“Do you want to go up to bed?” Buffy said softly.

“Oh!” Joyce sounded like she’d been struck; I wondered if she was upset about the door. “Buffy, no, that light is too bright. It's too bright.”

“Oh, okay, okay!” 

“It's too bright. Buffy, it hurts. It hurts, it hurts my eyes.”

“It's off, it's off.” Buffy’s voice was soothing, but I could hear the suppressed panic. “You know what, let’s go upstairs and we'll shut off all the lights up there. Okay?”

Buffy ushered her mother into the bathroom, her face determinedly placid as she flipped the light off, so that the only illumination was the faint glow of the nightlight. Joyce had a bandage on her forehead and looked confused, eyes wide and a little glassy.

“Sit here, mom,” Buffy said gently, guiding her mother to sit on the closed toilet seat. “I’ll turn off the light in your room, and then brush your hair.”

“All right, Buffy,” Joyce said tiredly, eyes closing in pain.

In the near-darkness, Buffy carefully ran the brush through her mother’s hair, taking care to avoid the bandaged area; Joyce sighed, eyes closed, and they were both silent for a long time as Buffy brushed and brushed until her mother’s head was sleek.

“Thank you,” Joyce whispered when Buffy put the brush away.

Buffy disappeared into her mother’s room and returned with a nightgown. “Do you need help changing?” 

“No, I can do that myself.” Joyce’s voice sounded wry, almost like her usual self. “I’m just going to lie down for a bit. Why don’t you go rest some? I know you’ve barely been sleeping, and Doctor Kriegel gave you all those complicated instructions....” She took the nightgown and set it on her lap, fingers curling into the cotton.

Buffy smiled helplessly. “I’m fine, Mom. I’m more worried about you.”

“I feel better already, just being at home,” Joyce said, her voice firm. She reached up and curved her hand around Buffy’s cheek, smiling.

“Okay.” Buffy leaned in with a cautious hug. “I love you, Mom. I’ll come back up in a bit with your medications.”

“Thank you, sweetie.” Joyce watched Buffy as she went out the door, then rose shakily to her feet to change.

She pulled the nightgown over her head carefully, wincing when she touched the bandage, and then glanced absently around the bathroom, eyes widening when she looked towards the tub.

“What are you doing here?” she said suddenly, voice trembling with fear and anger. “I don't know what you are or how you got here, but you can’t just come into someone’s home like this! There are rules!”

She blinked, and her face slackened into confusion again. “I’m just going to lie down for a bit, Buffy,” she said, voice wry. “Why don’t you go rest some?” She walked slowly out of the bathroom; I heard the blankets rustling as she got into bed.

I listened for her breathing to slow, but each time I thought she was drifting off to sleep, she’d gasp or mutter something under her breath, and her breath would quicken again. I could hear the faint noise of the television from downstairs, and wondered if Buffy could hear her mother’s distress, but she didn’t come up the stairs, and I could not imagine her being indifferent if she could hear.

“Eggs,” Joyce suddenly said loudly. “Did we remember to put eggs on the list? You have to check them at the store to make sure they aren’t broken. You always liked my scrambled eggs, didn’t you? You always asked for seconds. The secret ingredient is orange juice. Don’t tell your father. He can’t have them.”

I heard her rustling about in her room, and then she appeared in the bathroom doorway, eyes glassy.

“You can’t have any eggs,” she said, pointing straight at me. “You weren’t invited. You’re nothing! You’re a shadow!”

Could she see me? Truly see me, my secret Key self? It felt like she could, but at the same time she was looking through me in a truly disturbing way, and I was unaccountably hurt. While I didn’t enjoy the same relationship with her as I did with Buffy -- she had a loofah mitt that had never deigned to communicate with me -- I had always cared about her health and well-being, and her rejection was painful, even knowing it was likely due to the brain tumor. Was this how she truly felt about me, an interloper in her bathroom?

Joyce was not forthcoming; without another word, she walked through the bathroom and I heard her footsteps going downstairs.

A few minutes later, there was a crashing noise from the kitchen; the television sounds stopped.

“Mom?” Buffy called out. Suddenly I could smell smoke, not the sweet smell of incense, but foul, acrid smoke. “Mom!” Buffy yelped suddenly. “What are you doing?”

“I’m making breakfast,” Joyce said snippily. “And you shouldn't eat any more, you're disgustingly fat.”

There was a faint sizzling sound and then the hiss of steam; the smell of smoke lingered. 

“Oh, Buffy,” Joyce said then, her anger replaced by confusion. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You just need some rest,” Buffy said, covering up distress with determination. “I'll put you back to bed.”

They came slowly up the stairs; I could hear the bedclothes rustling as Buffy helped her mother back into bed, coming briefly into the bathroom for a glass of water.

“Okay, here we go,” Buffy said bracingly. “That will help you sleep. Come on, let's get you all tucked in.” I heard the soft whisper of a kiss. “I’ll check on you in a little bit.” 

“All right. Thank you, honey.” There was a pause. “Don’t eat the eggs. They’re for your sister.”

Buffy sighed as she went down the stairs again, whispering to herself. “Don’t listen,” she said fiercely. “The doctor said this might happen. It’s just the tumor. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

A few moments later I heard music from the kitchen, cheerful salsa music entirely at odds with the tension that I had seen in Buffy’s back, underlaid with the sound of running water. 

In my time with Buffy, I had become sadly accustomed to terrible things coming through my bathroom door; it was a fact of my life, as inevitable as a sex article in Cosmo. I was, however, used to the horrors of the day -- be they monsters, a wounded Slayer, or Riley Finn -- entering by way of the floor.

Tonight, the horror came across the ceiling.

Joyce was talking to herself again, frantic nonsense that made me want to weep, and so I didn’t notice the scuttling noise until a terrible face appeared in the bathroom doorway, peeking around the top of the door frame. It was gray and rough-skinned, red eyes sunk in deep black circles and a round, gaping mouth ringed with sharp, uneven teeth. An unspeakably noisome smell accompanied the beast, waves of vile odor creeping like smoke across the ceiling and down the walls.

It didn’t notice me at all; its beady eyes were trained on the other door, the door leading to Joyce’s bedroom. There was a savage, alien intelligence in those eyes that sent shivers all along my fibers.

The creature slithered in and across the ceiling, like a giant cockroach, though it seemed only to have two arms, propelling itself with obscene wriggles of its sluglike body. I could not tell what allowed it to adhere to the ceiling, but surmised it was some quality of its unpleasant, rough skin. The dim glow of the nightlight gleamed dully off a hard carapace shielding its back; it left a faint trail of slime in its wake as it traversed the bathroom and entered Joyce’s bedroom.

Joyce’s ramblings cut off for a moment and then resumed. “Those eyes…” she said grimly. “Those eyes, they're like gasoline puddles! Tell me. Tell me because I need to know why. Why are you staring at me like that?” She continued to talk, addressing the monster on the ceiling.

Never had I cursed my loofahness so bitterly! Buffy’s beloved mother was in danger, not even lucid enough to recognize her own peril, much less to flee from it, and I was a helpless witness, unable to call out or fetch assistance or even fling my tiny loofah body between Joyce and the beast that menaced her, only able to listen as she continued her terrifying one-sided conversation. Every so often the slug-thing would squeal, as if in response to her, and I listened numbly as she continued to babble, the faint cheerful music a grotesque soundtrack to my dread.

The music shut off a moment before the creature made its move; I heard a heavy thud.

“Get off me!” Joyce screamed, voice high and weak.

“Mom?” I heard Buffy’s uncertain voice from downstairs.

There was a liquid squelch, like hair gel squished from a bottle, and Joyce’s voice cut off mid-cry, replaced by muffled whimpers of distress. 

Buffy’s footsteps were swift on the staircase; she hurried down the hall and into her mother’s room. “Mom!”

There was a crunchy thud and the creature squealed, thudding heavily to the carpet, and I joyfully heard Joyce gasp in a desperate breath.

“Mom! Can you breathe?”

Joyce started to cough and then there was a scrabbling sound, claws on fabric, and the creature squealed again, viciously, and I heard thumping and thudding out in the hallway. I saw Buffy and the creature, locked in combat, rolling past the hall door and crashing down the stairs.

The beast squeaked again, and then there was sudden silence.

Had Buffy defeated it? I listened carefully, but the silence continued, and when Buffy stayed downstairs instead of coming up to check on her mother, I could only believe that she was still hunting it. The moments dragged on, only broken by the sound of Joyce’s labored breathing from her bedroom.

Buffy gasped in surprise downstairs. “Spike?”

I was immediately intrigued -- it was the first time I had ever witnessed, albeit distantly, an interaction between Buffy and her fantasy lover! Would they fight the creature together, then clinch in a passionate kiss? Or perhaps just banter outrageously, insinuating their attraction but never quite saying it? I suppose it was too much to hope for, imagining they would somehow connect, since Buffy was inexplicably devoted to Riley, but still I hoped.

It was very disappointing when Spike merely made some lame excuse about stealing Buffy’s junk and Buffy replied with some verbal eye-rolling, both of which were cut short when the creature apparently attacked again. After a brief scuffle and some revolting meaty stabbing sounds, the creature let out a final squeal that faded away into silence.

It did not sound like there were any post-battle smooches, more’s the pity. 

What did happen a few moments later, however, was mystifying. The front door slammed open with a solid bang, followed almost immediately by the back door, and a chorus of loud footsteps echoed from downstairs. For a moment I thought perhaps Buffy’s friends had arrived to assist in the battle, but the only voice I recognized was Riley’s.

Buffy didn’t even greet him before tearing up the stairs to check on her mother.

“Did it hurt you?” she asked, voice shaking.

“I’m all right,” Joyce replied bravely. “Buffy, what was that?”

“A Queller demon,” Riley said in a clipped voice, having followed her upstairs. “Willow said it was a scavenger, summoned to kill….” He trailed off for a moment. “It killed several patients at the hospital before hitching a ride home with you. I came as fast as I could.”

“Bringing two dozen of your military buddies?” Buffy asked tonelessly.

“We needed backup. You weren’t available, and the Scoobies aren’t exactly the covert type. They couldn’t handle--”

Buffy interrupted him, though she addressed her mother, voice gentle. “Let’s get that gross goop off your face. Maybe we’re lucky and it cleaned out your pores, huh?”

She helped her mother into the bathroom, tenderly wetting a washcloth and wiping her mother’s face. It took three rinsings of the washcloth afterwards for the foul smell to fade from the air. In the meantime, Riley hovered in the doorway, looking impatient, until Buffy cast him a swift glare. 

“Riley, can you please wait in the hall? Mom’s had enough stress for one night.”

This time Buffy stayed in the bedroom with her mother, humming quietly, until Joyce’s breathing deepened and slowed.

Buffy closed all the doors to her mother’s room before confronting Riley in the hallway. “Are they gone?”

Riley’s voice was hard. “They’re just securing the area.”

“Get them gone.” Buffy laughed bitterly. “They can take the corpse if they want. I’m sure it’ll make a nifty Frankenstein’s monster. Adam two-point-oh, with stinky concrete mucus.”

“They’re not the Initiative.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Buffy brushed past Riley and into the bathroom; I heard him on the stairs a short while later, conversing in staccato cadences with some other men with unfamiliar voices. Eventually the boots all tromped away and the doors closed, leaving the house quiet once more.

While the boots were exiting stage left, Buffy methodically cleansed her face and hands, brushing her teeth and changing into a set of no-nonsense cotton pajamas. Clearly she was not setting up for a seduction.

After a bit Riley came upstairs, folding his arms belligerently and standing in the doorway. “You want to tell me what your problem is?”

Buffy glared at him in the mirror. “Keep it down. Mom needs her sleep.”

He lowered his voice a hair. “You said you wanted my help.”

“Of course I want your help,” Buffy hissed. “But I said I  _ didn’t _ want your black-ops buddies involved. Why were they here? Are they still tapping my phones?”

Riley set his jaw. “I called them.”

“You  _ called _ them? You actually brought them to my house on purpose?”

“I needed people I could count on. The gang were all at the library, just doing research.”

Buffy raised her eyebrows. “ _ Just _ doing research. The research that told us what this thing was?”

“They weren’t doing anything to stop it.”

“They were doing what we do. Finding out what we’re up against so I can fight it.”

“How many people would have died while they were hiding in the library like cowards?”

“I am going to pretend you did not just say that word,” Buffy bit out, and then sighed. “Probably the same number of people as actually died, from what you’ve said. Your guys didn’t save the people at the hospital, and I took care of things here.”

“Buffy, they’re untrained civilians. They have no business--”

Buffy whirled around then, eyes flashing, though her voice was still low. “I’d trust any one of my friends at my back before I’d call in the Initiative. What the hell were you thinking?”

“They’re not the Initiative.”

“Oh, so they’ve got a new name? Task Force Zero, maybe? Or Project X? They’re still a bunch of toy soldiers sticking their guns into my business, messing with things they don’t understand.”

His eyes narrowed. “Glad to hear you think so much of me.”

“I wasn’t talking about you!” Buffy’s voice was high and fierce. “I trust you! I don’t trust them!”

He chuckled nastily. “Yeah, I see how much you trust me. Did you have some more sand that needs to be poured? Or maybe there’s a box up on a high shelf I can get down for you, since you’re trusting me with the important stuff.”

Buffy’s voice softened. “Riley, I’m asking you for the help I need, every way I can. It really means a lot to me that you’re patrolling with the gang and helping me out with little things so I can focus on Mom.”

“With the gang,” Riley scoffed. “Because I’m so weak and helpless I need babysitters?”

Buffy’s voice dropped lower, soothing. “Nobody’s babysitting anybody here. I just thought having some more experienced hands on patrol would be safer for everyone. We still don’t know what Glory’s up to, or when she might show up again.”

“I don’t need the Scoobies to keep me safe.”

Buffy’s voice grew angry again. “What, you’d rather have your commando squad? So you can all paint your faces up with camo and stalk around in the bushes? Say  _ affirmative  _ and _ negative _ on your walkie-talkies and do wacky animal experiments?”

He planted his hands on his hips. “At least I’m not hanging out with evil vampires.”

Buffy blinked. “Who’s hanging out with evil vampires?”

“Spike was here.” 

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Oh. He was stealing my junk, apparently, and then the demon jumped him. That does not constitute ‘hanging out.’”

“And you didn’t stake him.”

“He’s neutered, and all he can do is annoy me. Being annoying is not a staking offense.” 

“Right. Annoying.”

“Well, sometimes he has his uses. He’s good in a fight, when he’s bored enough.” I could think of some other uses, but it seemed Buffy had drawn a solid line between her relationship with real-life Spike and her private sexual needs, which was certainly her prerogative.

“Did you let  _ him _ bite you, too?” Riley’s voice was accusing.

“What?”

“Spike. He’s bitten you, hasn’t he?”

Buffy threw up her hands in frustration. “Oh my god. Spike has never bitten me. Not once. Every time he’s tried, he’s gotten a big old mouthful of my fist in his face.”

“You sure looked like you were getting along swell tonight. Holding hands.”

Her face was incredulous. “He had just helped me up. That is not holding hands.”

“So now you let your sworn enemies give you a hand up?” Riley’s face was mulish.

“What the hell? Riley, are you actually jealous?”

He drew himself up proudly. “Do I have reason to be?”

“No! God, what is wrong with you?”

“I just….” He sighed in exasperation. “I don’t know. I just saw you together, and--”

“Have I ever given you any reason to believe I would be unfaithful? Ever?”

“You went to see Angel--”

“Oh, no. You do not get to bring that into this. I went to Los Angeles to deal with Faith, and you immediately jumped to the most insulting conclusion possible, with no evidence whatsoever. And you turned out to be wrong. That is not a reason.”

“You let Dracula bite--”

“‘Let’ is not the word. I did not cheat on you with Dracula. Or with Angel, or with  _ Spike _ , for Pete’s sake. You have absolutely nothing to be jealous of, and you know it.”

He sighed again, looking at her with a face like a kicked puppy. “I just love you so much, it makes me crazy.”

She softened at that, smiling. “I love you, too.”

They kissed, though I could tell from the way they stood that they were both still angry, and nothing had really been resolved.

I could not help but be torn. On the one hand, I was highly in favor of Buffy’s life being both personally and sexually fulfilling, and did not feel Riley was providing either for her; indeed, I saw his irrational jealousy and childishness as downright harmful. At the same time, Buffy clearly wished to be with Riley, and her private fantasies about Spike were obviously just her way of filling in the gaps in her sexual satisfaction so that she could do so, while she had no intention of making them a reality. Was I letting my dislike of Riley and my affinity for Spike cloud my better judgment? 

Was my knowledge of human nature, gleaned from only the finest magazines, lacking in some way?

As Buffy wished Riley good night, I was struck by self-doubt, not knowing what outcome to hope for. I simply wanted Buffy to be happy. If there was anything I could do to bring her happiness, I would do it in an instant.

If only I knew how.

*

I was still considering the best path to Buffy’s future happiness two nights later. Riley had stayed away during this time, leaving Buffy to spend time with her mother, which seemed to be what she wanted; she found comfort in the simplest of domestic tasks, bringing her mother breakfast in bed and brushing her hair. The night before the surgery was scheduled, they laughed together as Buffy helped with the surgery preparations, once Joyce had washed her hair with special shampoo.

“You would think modern science would be able to come up with a way to disinfect that didn’t also smell like disinfectant,” Buffy said, wrinkling her nose as she wiped at her mother’s forehead and face.

“I would settle for my hair not feeling like straw,” Joyce laughed back. “I still can’t believe I’m not allowed to wear makeup to the hospital. Not even moisturizer.”

“The monsters,” Buffy agreed with a dramatic scowl. “But don’t worry, Mom. I promise to shield you from the paparazzi.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I was worried I’d end up on the cover of the Weekly World News.”

“Oh, your pictures would be Enquirer-level, at least.” Buffy swabbed the disinfecting wipe over her mother’s ear. “I wonder how much they’d be worth?”

“At least fifty cents,” Joyce giggled.

“Well, that will pay for one-hundredth of a textbook. Let me get my camera.”

Joyce laughed again, then gave Buffy a mock glare. “Sweetie, I think you’ve disinfected enough. You’ve gotten that patch of skin at least twelve times.”

“Just trying to be thorough.” Buffy gave Joyce’s forehead one last swipe before tossing the wipe in the garbage.

“They’ll be thorough tomorrow, too,” Joyce said reassuringly. “Dr. Kriegel said this is just a pre-disinfecting pass. They’ll do it again right before the surgery.”

“I don’t plan on there being any nasties left for them. Just call me Buffy the Germ Slayer.”

Joyce looked up at Buffy seriously. “I really am going to be all right,” she said softly.

Buffy’s face tightened slightly. “I know you are, Mom.” She helped her mother to her feet, solicitously escorting her to her bedroom.

Later on, I heard Buffy crying in her room, great wracking sobs muffled by her pillow that eventually trailed off into fitful slumber. She slept barely two hours before she was up again, pacing in the hall until her alarm went off and she went into her mother’s room to gently wake her. Shortly thereafter I heard Giles’s voice downstairs, and they departed. 

The day passed interminably. I was used to being alone for long stretches of time, and it had never bothered me before, but somehow knowing that Joyce was undergoing brain surgery that very day made my usual magazine-cover reading and daydreams unsatisfying, and I fretted until I heard the front door open again. 

It was Buffy and Riley, and I gathered from her effusiveness that Joyce had come through her surgery safely; her relief was palpable, and when she came upstairs to use the restroom her eyes were glowing. I heard her tell Riley her mother was expected to sleep the rest of the evening.

They quickly settled into what sounded like the promised candlelit date night; I must admit that I tuned it out once it became clear no further updates on Joyce’s condition were to be forthcoming, as I had heard more than enough dreary “date nights” and was far more interested in pondering whether I was Letting My Dream Life Get Away. Perhaps Buffy would eventually tire of Riley and come by the bathroom for some late-night reading so I could find out.

Much later, after the music and conversation and sex and pillow talk were over, I heard Buffy’s breathing slow and deepen with sleep. I was just giving up on finding out the answer to my Dream Life questions that evening when I heard soft footsteps in the hall and saw Riley pass by the doorway. The front door opened and closed stealthily.

It was strange to me that he was taking such care with noise; normally, Riley tromped about like an elephant in his stompy boots, secure in his welcome, but I supposed he wished to return to his own residence for the evening and knew Buffy needed her sleep. And she did sleep soundly for some time; when he returned to the house in the wee hours of the morning, she was still deep in dreamland.

He must have been patrolling, as it turned out, since he paid a visit to the first aid kit to bandage up an injured arm before rejoining Buffy in her room.

The next morning, Buffy bubbled about plans to help her mother choose a wig; Riley declined to accompany her, but he returned to the house to join her for sex that evening, once again waiting until she was asleep to head out on patrol. I was surprised to hear the door open again not long after he’d left, but then the sound of the footsteps clued me in that it wasn’t Riley after all.

It was Spike.

His conversation with Buffy was brief and low, and ended with Buffy accompanying him down the stairs, even though it was the middle of the night. I cannot say that I was unused to so much activity late at night -- Buffy’s sacred duty often required nighttime escapades -- but I could not help but note that there was a lot more coming and going these days than was usual. I hoped it did not mean something had gone awry with Joyce, or that yet another apocalypse was in the making. Certainly I no longer believed Buffy might intend to explore her sexuality with Spike, as she had made her preferences in the real world clear.

Sadly, Buffy was not forthcoming as to what had happened when she returned a short while later; she came slowly up the stairs and went directly to her room, closing the door firmly behind her. She did not sleep again for a long time; I heard her footsteps as she paced intermittently, and occasional low mutters as she pondered whatever thorny problem Spike had presented her with. It was close to sunrise when she finally flopped onto her bed with an exhausted groan, and just a few hours later that she arose, stalking into the bathroom and angrily brushing her teeth before leaving for the day.

When she returned that evening, very late at night, I could tell immediately that something was wrong; her movements were slow and cautious, as if she were injured, and yet when she undressed for her bath I could see no new wounds or bruises. When she turned the water as hot as it would go, I instinctively knew her pain was the suffering of heartbreak; my hunch was confirmed a few minutes later, when she rested her forehead on her knees and began to weep.

She cried until the water stopped steaming, and then splashed water in her face, washing away the tracks of tears. When she reached out for me, I thought she was in need of my special brand of tension relief, but instead she set me atop her knees, regarding me bleakly.

“This is probably crazy,” she said in a rough voice. “But there isn’t anyone else I can talk to about this. Mom is in the hospital, and my friends… my friends think Riley’s right, if what Xander said is true. They’ll think it’s my fault he’s gone, that there’s something wrong with me.” She laughed bitterly. “And here I am talking to a loofah, so maybe they’re right, too.”

She wrapped her arms around her knees. “I thought I was doing everything right. I mean, I met a guy that my friends liked, he had a pulse, big plus, we started dating, I fell in love. And okay, so it wasn’t exactly the same as being in love with Angel, but I’m also not sixteen any more. I love him. I really, really do.” Her face screwed up and she burst into tears again, burying her face in her hands.

“How can it not be enough?” she said brokenly when the wave of tears had passed. “He said he didn’t feel it. He said….” She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, frustrated. “He said vampire whores made him feel more wanted than I did. He was going and getting bit on purpose, and paying money for it, and he told me it was my fault because…. I don’t even know. Because I didn’t love him right?”

She sniffled again, face crumpling. “And Xander said I shut down. That Riley was the guy who came along once in a lifetime, and I was taking him for granted.” She splashed her face with water again. “But I wasn’t. Or I didn’t think I was. I mean, he’d say he wanted to help, and I’d ask him to help me, and then, um, he’d help me if he wanted to, and then we’d…. He didn’t ever say that it wasn’t enough. He never said. And we haven’t even dated for a year. Less than a year together, but I don’t love him enough.”

She stared at the wall for a long time after that, brow furrowed.

“I ran,” she finally said, brokenly. “Xander said if I loved him I should run, and I did. I ran as fast as I could, but I was too late. He’d already left.” She sighed. “That’s how dependable he is. He gives an ultimatum, and darn if he doesn’t follow through on schedule.”

She looked at me again, eyes red. “Is this all really my fault? Was I really that bad of a girlfriend? I just wish....” She trailed off and sat back in the tub, staring moodily at the ceiling.

If I had been able to talk, I would have directed Buffy to reread the November issue of Cosmopolitan sitting in the bathroom magazine rack, and specifically the article “13 Signs You’re In a Toxic Relationship,” which clearly pointed out that passive aggression, excessive jealousy, unwarranted criticism, arguing without communication, negative energy, and having to tiptoe around your relationship because your partner makes you believe you can’t do anything right are seven of the thirteen signs. I would further have pointed out that none of these issues were Buffy’s fault, that Riley was actually the one with the problem, and furthermore that topping off his betrayal and emotional abuse with some sort of ultimatum instead of an apology was the height of caddishness, and she was best off without him. But I could not speak, and so I can only presume Buffy did in fact continue to believe it was all her own fault. 

I hoped she would read the magazine later, when she was done crying. 

In the end, though the sight of Buffy in her devastation was heartrending, I knew she deserved better than a man who would berate her for not needing him the precise way he wanted to be needed, then selfishly abandon her in the midst of a personal crisis. It was frustrating beyond belief to be immobile. nothing more than a bath accessory and occasional silent confidante, a shell of a cucumber to cry on. I could only hope that my presence brought her some peace, and that she could somehow sense my love and devotion to her well-being, even if I could not put it into words, nor shed a tear of my own, merely absorb the buckets of salt she shed as she mourned the loss of her love.

END CHAPTER 3

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER NOTES: Some dialogue adapted from s5e08 “Shadow,” s5e08 “Listening to Fear,” and s5e09 “Into the Woods.” Gratuitous meta quote from the “G.I. Joe” cartoon, because I have no shame.


End file.
